Afflatus

To Unimitate

Writing

about writing

is pathetic,

so instead

I’ll write about that time

in March when we went

hiking along ridgetops and

firetrails, and the sun

baked the rocks hard and impassive

to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks

folded back upon

themselves and seemed 

so illogical that we thought

somehow we were going

in circles

(round the Sun we missed

that one it felt like we

weren’t moving) 

For lunch you had squished

peanut butter and

sardine sandwiches because

you’re odd and idiosyncratic

like that, and I had apples

and muesli bars because I’m

too lazy to make lunch

at 6 in the morning.

We ate on a huge rock

overlooking trees and Lucy

in the Sky with Diamonds was

playing on the radio.

It felt as if we were two

enclosed in a small

self-erected hazecloud

where birds and lizards

and just breeze mingles

surprisingly well with John Lennon’s

recollections. 

I remember the sun-scored rocks

had stored up warmth

from years of Marchdays like

today, they stayed warm slightly

longer than the air did.

We tasted each other’s

post-lunch mouths (you were

sardine and kind of gross)

and pretended like

our hands were ants,

scuttling aimlessly

(we had an aim)

  

I liked to think my fingers

were all elegant and smooth

as the moon.

I love you and I want

to make you happy here,

I love you and I want you

to make me happy here,

i should sleep – you should sleep –

we should sleep together. 

I still remember that Marchday

when we went hiking and I’ve

written about it

dozens of times before in different

modes with other characters

but

to be honest I

don’t want to write about

anything else.